I must say that any mention of fixtures has always bored me intensely. When it was a matter of getting a house to live in I was all energy. As soon as Celia had found it, I put my solicitor on to it; and within a month I had signed my name in two places, and was the owner of a highly residential flat in the best part of the neighbourhood. But my effort so exhausted me that I have felt utterly unable since to cope with the question of the curtain-rod in the bathroom or whatever it is that Celia means by fixtures. These things will arrange themselves somehow, I feel confident.
Meanwhile the decorators are hard at work. A thrill of pride inflates me when I think of the decorators at work. I don't know how they got there; I suppose I must have ordered them. Celia says that she ordered them and chose all the papers herself, and that all I did was to say that the papers she had chosen were very pretty; but this doesn't sound like me in the least. I am convinced that I was the man of action when it came to ordering decorators.
"And now," said Celia one day, "we can go and choose the electric-light fittings."
"Celia," I said in admiration, "you're a wonderful person. I should have forgotten all about them."
"Why, they're about the most important thing in the flat."
"Somehow I never regarded anybody as choosing them. I thought they just grew in the wall. From bulbs."
When we got into the shop Celia became businesslike at once.
"We'd better start with the hall," she told the man.
"Everybody else will have to," I said, "so we may as well."
"What sort of a light did you want there?" he asked.